


semper fidelis

by cywscross



Series: Tumblr Prompts 2015 [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Stiles, Character Death, Gen, Human Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Language, M/M, Pack of Three, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stilinski Pack, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>demios-itami asked: Maybe peter wants power and a dead kate cause coming back turned him into a delta and jaguars are a form of alpha - what if stiles kills kate cause he's not as morally gifted as scott (who want to save everyone without death, you poor puppy/the world clearly hasn't tainted him enough to be a successful alpha) causing stiles to become a human alpha/jaguar/raven/stiles/whatever and peter's wolf is content to hand in the reigns and be a delta worthy of his alpha and their pup/fellow packmate(malia)</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [demios-itami](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=demios-itami).



> I hope you don't mind me picking this up:) This prompt somehow got my muse going so I figured I’d just write something short for it. I’m not a huge fan of Stalia, Steter will forever be my OTP (Hey look, it rhymed! ...Yeah, you can tell I’m writing this after pulling a caffeinated all-nighter studying for a test.), but Stiles/Malia with a sibling-esque relationship is something I can get behind, especially with Stiles as Malia’s Alpha.
> 
> Also, Idk about the Delta thing, so let’s just say there’s a connection between Peter and Kate b/c of the way Kate was turned and then they both died and Peter lost his Alpha status while Kate turned into an Alpha werejaguar from her time in La Iglesia, and Peter basically has no choice but to obey her.

"Stiles!  _Stiles!_ "

Stiles jerks awake, hand already reaching for the possibly illegally acquired dagger underneath his pillow, only to groan and flop over when he realizes that the person looming over him is just Malia.

"You may not have been raised by them," Stiles sighs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.  "But you definitely inherited the Hale genes for super-creepiness."  He squints up at her, quickly noting the heavy frown creasing her brow and the hint of fang as she chews on her bottom lip.  "Alright, what's up?  Who do I have to kill?"

He's only partially joking, and they both know it.  Malia only manages a wan smile but it's genuine, with a touch of that same vindictiveness Stiles possesses, so Stiles'll take what he can get.

She still looks worried though, so with another sigh, he lifts one corner of his sheets in a silent invitation, and Malia doesn't need any further prompting than that before she's sliding in and nestling into his chest.

"Okay," Stiles cranes his head a little to meet her gaze.  "Now tell me what's wrong."

Malia grimaces, looking conflicted, but eventually, she does fess up.  "It's Peter."

No news has ever ended well when it started with that sentence.  Stiles wonders if now is a good time to start regretting encouraging Malia to get to know her father.  He knows how important family is, and it's one of the only reasons he was willing to shove aside his misgivings about Peter Hale when Malia asked Stiles' opinion about the whole matter.  That, and he's seen how isolated Peter's been from the reinstated Beacon Hills Pack since the very beginning, even from his own flesh and blood.  Neither Derek nor Cora wants anything to do with their uncle these days, but Stiles thought maybe Peter could get a second chance with Malia.

Of course, Stiles has kept a close eye on their interactions whenever he can, and Malia doesn't seem capable of keeping secrets from him anyway, but there's always a chance that Peter went and screwed something up big time when Stiles wasn't paying attention.  And if the werewolf has done something to endanger Malia, well, he's already set the guy on fire once; he can certainly do it again if it really comes down to it.  Stiles hasn't taken anyone under his wing since he met Scott a decade ago, so god help anyone who lays a finger – metaphorical or otherwise – on the people he calls his.  Malia's so like Stiles in some ways but also so very innocent in others, and yeah, the romance in their relationship never lasted beyond that single kiss back in Eichen House, but that hasn’t made Stiles any less protective of her.  If anything, he's even more protective of her because now she's family to him, and there is absolutely nothing Stiles won't do for family.

Or Pack, as Malia likes to call it after Stiles slowly but surely coaxed her – mostly – out of that loner mindset of hers.  Sometimes, Stiles finds himself calling it that too.  A pack of two, possibly three one day depending on what Peter's done _this_ time.

Perhaps Stiles has been running with were's for a bit too long.

"What did Peter do?"  He asks now.

A growl vibrates at the back of Malia's throat, and if Stiles would've missed it if he isn't as close as he is to the werecoyote.

"I caught him sneaking away," Malia divulges in a near whisper as if she's afraid someone might be listening in.  "He's been disappearing a lot recently, and... I got curious because we've been, you know, bonding more lately, but then, suddenly, he says he's busy, or he's telling me to go hang out with kids my own age; things like that.  So when he did it again today, I sort of doubled back and followed him.  Not far because he would've caught me sooner or later, but just before I lost him, I saw him-" She scowls.  "I saw him meet up with Kate Argent."

Stiles freezes.  "Kate?"

Malia nods, shifting until her head's resting on his shoulder so that she can examine him more closely with anxious eyes.  "It was definitely her.  Blonde hair, she had a gun with her, and she smelled like Argent under that disgusting wet sewer cat scent."

Stiles has to snort at that.  He does appreciate the irony.  Kate Argent, fanatical hunter extraordinaire, now a werejaguar.  Karma works in funny ways.

But Peter, working with _Kate_?  Stiles just can't see it.  At all.

"Blackmail, you think?"  He muses out loud after a long moment of contemplation, and he feels more than sees Malia go limp against him with relief.

"Maybe?"  Malia looks hopeful and increasingly pissed at the same time, eyes flashing bright blue.  "But I wouldn't know what she'd have on Peter to force him to do anything."

Stiles frowns up at the ceiling, mind leaping from theory to theory.  "'Force him'... Hey, Peter's an Omega right now, isn't he?  Since Derek never accepted him into his pack back when he was Alpha, and Scott definitely hasn't either."

"He could be a Beta now," Malia counters.  "If he's in our Pack."

Stiles quirks an amused smile.  Malia really is rather enamoured with the idea of Pack now that she has one.  Sort of.  "You know we're not a strictly conventional pack, right?  I mean we don't even have an Alpha."

Malia pulls away a little at this.  She stares at him for a moment before giving him one of those classic Hale eyerolls that Stiles has no doubt that she learned from her father.

"What?"  He grouches out, feeling mildly indignant.

"Nothing," Malia grumbles, and it sounds a lot like 'moron'.  "So what does it matter if Peter's an Omega or a Beta?"

The topic change is far from subtle but Stiles lets it go anyway, refocusing on the matter at hand instead.  "Well I guess it doesn't really matter either way but what if Kate came back as an Alpha?  I mean, how does the hierarchy work with werejaguars anyway?  She can control Berserkers for god’s sakes, and last time I checked, werewolves can’t do that.  And Peter was technically the one to turn her, so there's a connection between them already, no matter how weak it is. What with Peter no longer an Alpha after coming back from the dead, and Kate admittedly having the personality of one even though she just turned not too long ago, something could've gotten twisted up in the process.  It’s a possibility at the very least."

"So basically, she might be ordering Peter around using her Alpha status," Malia summarizes.  Her lips peel back in a snarl.  "I'm going to rip her throat out."

"We can't just go charging in," Stiles reminds her, but anger is beginning to simmer in his gut too.  Even if Kate isn't an Alpha, she's certainly holding _something_ over Peter's head because there's no way Peter would willingly work with the bitch who burned most of his family alive and then put him in a coma for six years, and Jesus Christ, how many people have tried their hand at using Peter for their own ends over the years?  There was that crazy nurse of his, wanting the Bite and only helping Peter after he promised it to her.  Then there was Meredith, and purposefully or not, she still violated his mind and then pinned the blame of the deadpool on him, to the point where the Sheriff pulled a gun on the werewolf, and god, Stiles never thought he would be ashamed of his own dad until that day.  Then there was Derek, and then Scott, both of them using Peter for his knowledge before shutting him out of their pack once they didn't need him anymore, and now there's Kate, enough said.

Jesus Christ.  Stiles probably would've slit his own throat years ago rather than endure all that.

Stiles may still be wary of Peter on some level, but he's Malia's father – _family_ – which means that Stiles has an obligation to look out for Peter too nowadays.

And honestly, even if he doesn't, he'd pick Peter over Kate any day of the week.  Besides, who would Stiles have to banter with and pull all-nighter research sessions with if Peter isn’t around because somebody fucked him over for good?

“Alright, well,” Stiles nudges Malia up so he can roll out of bed too.  “We kill Kate, problem solved, but I’d rather not take the credit for it afterwards.  Pretty sure Scott won’t be happy.”

Malia pulls a half-baffled, half-frustrated look.  “He doesn't even want her dead.  _Why_ doesn't he want her dead?  After all the stuff she did, I would've killed her for less.”

Stiles shakes his head even as he slings an arm around her shoulders in a brief one-armed hug.  “Because Scott doesn't want to kill anyone.  Killing is like the worst thing you could do in his books.  It’s...” Stiles thinks of Gerard, of Deucalion, of Jennifer even.  “He’s naive, even after all this time.  He sees the world in black and white.  Killing is bad, capturing bad guys and handing them over to the authorities is infinitely better.  And he’s an intrinsically good person when it comes down to it.  Unlike me.”

“Unlike us,” Malia corrects mulishly.  “I don’t particularly care about being _good_ if that means not killing the things that keep coming back to try and kill _us_.”

Stiles shrugs.  “Scott has morals.  Me, us – not so much.  Least not when it comes to our continued wellbeing.”

Malia’s mouth curls down then, and her eyes go distant as they tend to do when she recalls her years living as a werecoyote, and what drove her to that in the first place.  There are times, even now, when she can’t stand civilization, and that’s when Stiles takes her on a bit of a road trip to the middle of nowhere where she can just revert to animal for a little while and not care about all the complicated human stuff.

“There are worse things than death,” She mutters.

Stiles thinks of dead parents and torture in the guise of a pointless message.  He thinks of that sickening lurch of fear whenever he even contemplates the deaths of the people he cares about, and he thinks of a dark fox tearing into his mind and forcing him to obey.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees grimly, arm tightening around her shoulders in wordless comfort when she leans into him.  “There are.”

He doesn't dwell on it.  There are more important things to deal with right now.  “Come on, we’ve got research and scheming to do if we want to save your old man.”

“You make eyes at my ‘old man’,” Malia shoots back with a sly smirk that’s all Peter.  She laughs outright when Stiles splutters in response.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed!”

“So sue me, he has an ass worth admiring,” Stiles gripes, recovering as he moves over to his laptop.

He grins when Malia makes a revolted face.  “Can we not talk about my dad’s ass?”

“ _You_ started it.”

Malia pouts even as she pulls over a chair to sit beside him.  Stiles isn’t actually one for touch most of the time, even more so after the Nogitsune, but he’s comfortable enough with Malia to let her drape her arms around him and hook her chin over one of his shoulders.

“So what’s the plan?”  She asks, peering inquisitively at the screen.

“Research first,” Stiles replies.  “We need to know how to kill a Berserker.  Preferably not the Derek method of throwing ourselves at the thing until it dies and we end up shish-kebabbed.”

Malia huffs.  “ _I_ could take one.”

“Careful,” Stiles cautions dryly as he opens Google.  “Your Derek is showing.”

He gets a light thump to the head for that quip.

 

* * *

 

It takes almost a week to begin putting the pieces of a plan together, but Stiles on a researching binge plus a potentially life-or-death deadline will always equal Shit Is Gonna Get Done Fast.

So while he’s figuring out how to kill Kate’s minions (fire apparently doesn't do shit but really big explosions might, which will be problem because they don’t really want to give Kate the opportunity to run), Malia is sticking to Peter as much as possible without being too obvious about it, dropping casual because-I-want-more-father-daughter-time-with-you questions about where he’s going all the time.  If Malia can get a bead on where Peter is meeting Kate every few days, Stiles can start arranging an ambush.

“He is totally suspicious!”  Malia laments melodramatically as she sprawls out on Stiles’ bed one afternoon.  “He keeps giving me these sideways looks; it’s like he has a- a built-in detector for sensing-”

“-bullshit?”  Stiles supplies with a wry grin.  “Not much gets past Peter.  I wasn't really expecting you to succeed in getting anything out of him.”

He ducks the pillow Malia chucks at him.  “Well it’s good to know I surpassed your expectations then,” The werecoyote declares, practically radiating smugness when Stiles blinks at her in surprise.  “He smells a little bit like the sewers lately from meeting up with Kate no matter how much he showers, so I figured he would've left some of _his_ scent behind in the sewers too.  Which is why I stopped following him, and I followed his scent instead.  It was really hard because it stinks like six-day-old dead fish and rodents down there, but I got it.  I know which street the drainage tunnel that they've been meeting in is under.”

It’s on the tip of Stiles’ tongue to scold her for taking such a risk.  After all, what if Kate caught her while she was down there, or one of the Berserkers did?  And she didn't even tell him first before doing something so reckless.

But Malia looks so damn proud, like the first time she managed to score a B+ on a Biology test after two weeks of intensive studying with Stiles, and Stiles himself knows the feeling of accomplishing something and wanting a bit of appreciation for it.  God knows Derek only ever threw him into walls after Stiles produced seventy-two hours’ worth of research for him or saved his life from one monster or another.  And that – making people feel like they're never good enough no matter what they do – is not something Stiles ever wants to make a habit out of, especially when it comes to the people he trusts to watch his back.  Besides, Malia always comes to him when she thinks she needs assistance.  She can be as reckless as Stiles when it comes to danger, but she also has a level head on her shoulders.  Stiles should trust her judgment.

So he says instead, “That’s awesome!”, and it’s genuine because it _is_ awesome.  Now that they have a location, he can move the plan forward.  “Nobody saw you though?  And you can definitely find it again?”

Malia beams with pleasure.  “Thanks.  And nope, what kind of tracker do you take me for?  I even dunked myself in sewer water before I headed in so I wouldn't leave _my_ scent all over the place.”

She shudders, and ah, Stiles now understands why he came home earlier today from the supermarket to find Malia using up all the hot water and then some.

“And I can do you one better,” Malia swings off the bed and saunters over.  “I can point it out on a map if you have one.  I made sure to remember all the street signs and everything once I got back to the surface, plus, I found two other tunnels that lead to the same storm drain, except Peter and Kate _haven’t_ been using those.  And of those two tunnels, only one of them smelled like Berserkers.”

Stiles’ eyes widen.  Malia puffs up, just a little, cheeks tingeing pink before she ducks her head and plops down in his lap so that Stiles loses sight of her face.

That’s okay; hugging her from behind is no hardship, and it makes it that much easier for him to press his cheek against hers in an imitation of a were’s penchant for scent-marking.  Malia automatically nuzzles back, a soft, slightly bashful smile tilting her lips.

“You are more amazing than words can describe,” Stiles tells her with utmost solemnity, and it makes her crack a grin, her usual poise returning to the forefront.

“Well of course I am,” Malia lounges back further into Stiles.  “Is that enough information for you to figure out how to take down Kate and her Berserkers?”

“More than enough,” Stiles assures, and their respective smiles are decidedly not nice.  “Give me two or three days, and then we’ll go and save your dad’s ass before he does something stupid and gets himself killed.”

“Yeah, and then you’ll have nothing worth admiring anymore,” Malia cackles, apparently deciding that Peter’s ass can be talked about after all if it means embarrassing Stiles.  She doesn't stop snickering even when Stiles dumps her onto the floor in retaliation.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Stiles decides to handle the Berserkers with a mix of magic and a handful of grenades that he filched from Allison a while back, and she either never noticed or didn't care.  Either way, she’s dead so it isn’t as if anyone can trace them back to him anymore anyway.  And Stiles has it on good authority that weapons in the Argent family are all specially manufactured for them, unique from your everyday weapon brands, which ties in neatly to the rest of Stiles’ plan.

They don’t tell anyone about it.  Scott would insist on a different plan that will undoubtedly be tedious and require several near death encounters before they make any progress, and it will probably end with Kate escaping in their attempt to apprehend her _without_ hurting her, none of which Stiles has any patience to spare for.  Plus, the entire Pack would sooner believe the moon was made of cheese than even consider the notion that Peter _isn’t_ plotting their demise behind their backs.

“The Berserkers don’t have heartbeats,” Malia informs him, nose wrinkled.  “They just smell like death.  I can track Peter; I can track Kate.  But I can’t track the Berserkers.”

“That’s fine; I can more or less predict where she’d place them to guard her little hideout.  I’ll mark them down for you.  And I only have seven grenades anyway,” Stiles scans the sewer system blueprints in front of him, absently chewing on the cap of a highlighter.  “So we’ll just have to hope that Kate doesn't have more than seven of them.”

Malia will be in charge of shadowing Peter until the guy starts making excuses again, and by this point, the werecoyote has become pretty adept at knowing when her father is slipping away to meet Kate.

(“He always looks a bit angry,” Malia discloses irritably, fiddling with the gun that Stiles technically should not possess and looking like she wants to use Kate to learn how to shoot.  Stiles is rather glad that the thing isn’t loaded at the moment.  “And if Derek’s there, he always throws out all these snide insults until Derek looks ready to strangle him.  To be fair though, I think Peter wants to strangle _everybody_ by that point.”)

She would rendezvous with Stiles after that, and then they’d head out.  If everything goes according to plan, Beacon Hills’ latest crisis should be resolved before dawn.

 

* * *

 

 Stiles lets Malia lead the way, stopping when she motions for him to do so.  They're depending on the werecoyote’s ears right now since they can’t afford to alert Kate to their presence too early.  The charms he made for the two of them hide both scent and noise but Stiles doesn't want to push their luck, just in case.

“They're talking about Scott,” Malia whispers, all but mouthing the words against Stiles’ ear.  She cocks her head, listening intently.  “Kate wants to kill him for Allison.  Peter’s agreeing with her, says the Alpha power in Beacon Hills should never have gone to an inexperienced teenager.”

Stiles frowns in thought.  Is Peter going along with that plan to keep Kate from doing something even more drastic?  Although Peter must have some sort of plan of his own to free himself from Kate’s control.  There’s absolutely no way Peter doesn't want to kill Kate sooner or later.

Kill Kate.

By killing Scott first and gaining-

Stiles glowers down the tunnel.  He and Scott may be on the outs when it comes to getting shit done, but Scott is still Stiles’ brother, and if Peter wants to be free of Kate, well, there are more than one ways to do that.

“They still talking?”  Stiles says in an undertone.

Malia nods.  “They're going over plans.  Something about Mexico and Berserkers.  They've moved further in; I can’t hear them as well.”

“Okay,” Stiles digs into his bag and pulls out five grenades, handing them to Malia.  “You know what to do.”

A predatory gleam enters her eyes as she nods again.  “Leave the Berserkers to me.”

Stiles reaches out before he can stop himself, clasping a hand around the back of her neck and drawing her in until they're forehead to forehead.  “Be careful.”

Malia gives his forearm a squeeze.  “You too.”

Stiles watches her go before shunting aside the concern gnawing at him.  Malia is capable, and Stiles has faith in her.  Right now, he has to concentrate on his part in all this.

 

* * *

 

Mountain ash is Stiles’ bitch.  He’s become so proficient with it that shaping it is as easy as breathing to him.

And lucky him, he’s facing two were’s, one of whom doesn't know a thing about him aside from being Scott’s sidekick.

“Fallen on hard times, huh?”  Stiles steps out into the open, interrupting Kate mid-sentence, and as she whirls to face him, Stiles is the only one to catch the spasm of horror on Peter’s face when the werewolf spots him too.

Thank fuck.  The last of Stiles’ reservations dissipates.

“Your evil lair of doom could use some work,” He continues taunting.  He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes when Kate relaxes again upon seeing him.  Even the gun in her hands dips, and her startled expression is replaced with noticeable mockery.

“Oh?  So the Sheriff’s boy is the one who figures it out first?”  Kate cants her head, eyes glittering maliciously.  “Too bad you’re just a human; you won’t stand a chance, and I'm afraid I can’t let you leave alive.”  Her lip curls.  “Not that I would anyway.  A human running with mutts.  You've been tainted.”

“Pot, kettle, bitch,” Stiles retorts, and in the shadows around them, mountain ash slithers silently along the floor, moving where Stiles directs it to and forming two discreet circles, one around Peter and the other around Kate.

Now he just has to worry about the gun.

Kate sneers at him.  “I’m just avenging my niece; if that means in this disgusting form, then so be it.  But you're not worth my effort.”  She flicks an idle hand at Peter, who is standing very, very still.  His eyes are an electric blue, and every line of his body is wired like a coiled spring.  “Why don’t I give you to Peter instead?  Did I mention that?  I have my own pet guard dog now, though it’s a pity that nobody will be surprised when I reveal his part in my plans; I would've loved to see their faces if one of your more loyal members betrayed you.”

Stiles sort of wants to put a bullet in that gleeful smirk of hers.  But.  Not yet.  He has to wait for Mali-

“Stiles!”  Peter speaks for the first time since Stiles arrived, and he growls it out through a mouthful of fangs.  “Stiles, you have to ru-”

Kate’s eyes flash an ominous green.  “Peter, kill the boy.”

Peter jerks like he’s been shot, his shoulders hunch like he’s fighting with himself, and then he’s launching himself forward, and it would be absolutely terrifying if it weren’t for the fact that the werewolf doesn't get three feet before he crashes headlong into the barrier that Stiles erected only a minute ago.

Peter’s knocked right back onto the ground, and Kate’s head snaps around, her smirk dropping off her face.  A moment of distraction is all Stiles needs, and he strikes.

In the blink of an eye, he hurls one of his remaining grenades at the werejaguar.  Kate snarls, skin flooding blue, and she bats it aside, only for it to explode the second she touches it.

Except it doesn't go boom.  Instead, there’s a _fwoop_ sound of compressed air, as if someone’s hit the mute button, and when the thing blows, it doesn't even shake the support structure around them.

A contained explosion.  Stiles grins.  He loves magic.

Kate howls, still alive, but her gun clatters to the ground as she clutches at her burnt skin, and Stiles doesn't waste a second.  He lunges forward into the circle of mountain ash, snags the gun, and hauls ass back out just in time, diving the last few feet and _still_ feeling the phantom skim of claws that _just_ misses his neck.

Holy fuck, that was close.

Kate surges forward, ramming her shoulder into the invisible barrier, features twisted into an ugly mask of hate.

“You’ll pay for that!”  She snarls, shoving against the barrier with every last scrap of super strength she now has.  Her eyes glow that unnatural green again.  “My Berserkers will come and they’ll tear you to pieces!”

“Actually, no they won’t,” Malia’s voice interjects, and a moment later, she’s prowling into the storm drain as well, hair tousled like she’s been in a fight, eyes burning blue, and claws still unsheathed, but not a single scratch anywhere on her.

She grins up at Stiles as she steps up to stand beside him, holding out a hand to pass two grenades back to him.  “There were only three, and I got ’em all.  Told you I could do it.”

Stiles snorts, feeling something relax in his chest at the sight of her unscathed.  “Like I ever doubted you.  I let you handle it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, with an hour of fussing beforehand,” Malia snarks back, but she leans over to rest her weight against his shoulder for a moment, and Stiles can tell she’s tired.  Three Berserkers, even with grenades, super speed, and from a distance, can’t have been easy to take down.

“So you planned this with your girlfriend,” Kate hisses, pacing along the barrier now.  “I should've guessed.  The kids in this town do have a history of thinking with their dicks before everything else after all.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Stiles corrects, ignoring the shot at Derek.

“And you didn’t really think I’d let this go, did you?” Malia growls, low and threatening as she takes a step forward.  “You think you could force _my dad_ into doing whatever you wanted, and get away with it?”

Kate blinks, and Stiles realizes that she had no idea.  Peter never told her, and there was no reason for the former hunter to randomly search for a connection between a werewolf and a werecoyote.

“You-” Kate stares between Malia and Peter.  Peter who’s picked himself up from the ground but looks... thrown.  Stunned.  And he looks at his daughter like he’s never seen her before.

“So why haven’t you called your little pack down here then?”  Kate sneers, recovering quickly, and not so subtly prodding for a clue about how much more danger is heading her way.  “Warn your Alpha about me?  Get Scott McCall to swoop in and save your father?”

Malia scoffs.  “As if he would've acted right away.  They would've wanted proof.  They would've doubted Peter.  If I want anything done, of course I’d go to Stiles.”  She bares her fangs.  “And Scott is _not_ my Alpha.”

Stiles cuts in before the situation can go any further south.  They need to wrap this up soon.

“Besides, it’s not like we need the extra manpower,” He places a calming hand between Malia’s shoulder blades, and he can feel some of the tension leak out of her.  “You're not really going anywhere anytime soon, are you?”

Kate glowers darkly at him, a clawed hand scraping down the mountain ash barrier.  “You think you can just hand me over to the authorities and be done with me?  I’d just escape again.   You're _weak_.  You should've killed me.”

“And who says I won’t?”  Stiles enquires rhetorically even as he reaches behind him for the gun tucked into the back of his jeans.  Kate freezes when he brings it out.  “Peter can’t kill you for obvious reasons.  Malia would love to kill you, also for obvious reasons, but she’s a more hands-on person, and I’d rather not leave traces of werewolf all over your carcass.  So.”

Kate draws herself up to her full height, and there is no denying the apex predator in her.

But she’s a caged predator, and that makes all the difference.

“You don’t have the nerve,” She decides, but for the first time, there’s a flicker of doubt in her eyes.

Stiles rolls his shoulders in an easy shrug as he brings the gun up.  “I've already killed one Argent.  Arguably two if I’m feeling particularly depressed that day.  I don’t even like you.  Trust me when I say I have zero hang-ups about making it three.”

Kate stares at him, and he sees the exact moment when it clicks.  “You killed-”

“-Gerard, yes,” Stiles smiles, and it’s gratifying to see the werejaguar take a step back.  Perhaps something of the Nogitsune left its mark after all.  Or maybe some part of Stiles has always been like this.  “Scott left him in Chris’ hands, alive.  My bro couldn't kill someone in cold blood – or otherwise – if his life depended on it, so somebody had to make sure that that geriatric wouldn’t come back for round two when no one was looking.  Besides,” He flicks off the safety.  “That bastard kidnapped me and tortured me.  He signed his own death warrant.”

He extends his arm.  Kate backs away until her back is pressed against the other side of the barrier.  Real fear finally dawns on her face.

“Peter is Malia’s family,” Stiles says quietly.  His hand is as steady as a rock.  “And Malia is mine, which means you don’t touch her, and you don’t touch Peter, not if you don’t want to deal with me.”

“Wait!”  Kate snaps out, desperation colouring her features.  “I could leave, I could just leave-”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles rebuffs with cold finality, and then he pulls the trigger.

It’s a perfect shot through the head, and a moment later, Kate Argent is dead.

 

* * *

 

A long silence ensues, right up until Stiles blinks and lowers his gun, and then Malia is scrambling forward towards her father.  Stiles follows her, feeling oddly... disconnected, but he focuses on breaking the mountain ash circle and letting Peter out.

“Are you okay?”  Malia demands, flitting over to Peter’s side.

Peter attempts his usual smirk but it falls a little short, if only because the werewolf can’t seem to hide his shock.

He glances at Malia.  “I’m fine.”  He meets Stiles’ gaze and holds it.  “More than fine, all things considered.”

Stiles hums in acknowledgement, moving over to where Kate’s body crumpled.  “You should've just said something, creeperwolf.  I could've killed her weeks ago.”

“Yes, and I suppose I should've just known that I had my own private cavalry on the side?”  Peter asks sardonically, and there’s the Peter Hale Stiles is used to.

“Of course,” Stiles agrees as he bends down to check for a pulse.  You never know.  “I mean dude, I thought you were smart.”

He can almost hear Peter rolling his eyes.  It makes him smile, but there’s work to be done still.

“Look, we’ll talk later,” Stiles says as he stands again and turns back to the two were’s.  “Malia, why don’t you get Peter back to my house?”  He glances at the werewolf in question.  “Is that okay?  Or would you prefer your own apartment?”

“Well, since you've extended an invitation, it would be remiss of me to turn it down.”  Peter’s roundabout way of saying he doesn't want to be alone is as exasperating as it is amusing.

Stiles inwardly frowns.  Wait, how did he know that?  He can sense Malia’s temperament most of the time these days, but that’s because he can read her, and he can’t read Peter anywhere near as well as Malia.

Right?

He gives himself a mental shake.  Later.

Malia’s already tugging Peter in the general direction of the closest exit.  “We’ll wait up for you!”

Peter stalls long enough to pin Stiles with a considering look.  “You're cleaning up here?”

Stiles answers with a sly smile.  “Have to set things up so that it’ll look like we were never here.  Kate losing control of the Berserkers, and they end up killing each other – sound good?”

Peter smirks back at him.  “You've always been my favourite, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes hard.  “Malia, get Creepy McCreepster outta here.”

Malia just snickers at them both, glancing back at him with knowing eyes.  Stiles has a feeling she won’t be leaving certain things alone if Peter decides to stick around.

The two were’s disappear down the tunnel.  Stiles blinks down at Kate’s corpse.  Dumping her in the remains of the Berserkers, and then getting rid of any evidence of the bullet wound with another grenade or two should do the trick.

Time to get to work.

 

* * *

 

“Alpha,” Peter remarks softly later that night (or really early morning depending on how you look at it).

Stiles squints up from where he’s been dozing off with Malia plastered against his left side and Peter sitting against the headboard on his right.  “Hunh?”

Peter snorts quietly before swaying forward a bit to catch Stiles’ eye.  “You're Malia’s Alpha.”

Stiles stifles a yawn.  Why do they have to have such serious conversations at four in the morning?  “What’re you talkin’ ’bout, Peter?  I'm a human.”

“And now you're a human Alpha,” Peter clarifies nonchalantly like it’s no big deal, but Stiles suddenly finds himself wide awake.  “You killed Kate.  She was an Alpha in her own right; she carried the power of one, and you killed her.  Malia wasn't an Omega even before today though; Kate’s death just made it a little more... official.”

Stiles pushes himself upright, careful not to wake the werecoyote in his bed.  “Wait, what do you mean by that?”

Peter cants his head, blue eyes intent.  He looks less stressed than he has been in a long while though.  “You said Malia was yours.”

“She is,” Stiles asserts instantly, glancing down at where Malia is sleeping soundly in one of his baggy t-shirts and pajama pants.  “I’d protect her with my life.”

Peter inclines his head.  “And I believe-” Uncharacteristically, he breaks off, looking almost hesitant.  Stiles turns his full attention on him, and the line of Peter’s shoulders relaxes minutely.  “...I believe you staked a claim on me today too.”

Stiles opens his mouth.  Nothing comes out.  He closes it again.

Did he?  What he said to Kate, he only said what felt right.  And yet...

Peter’s in his _bed_ , and – on hindsight – Stiles never found it even remotely strange for a second.  When he came home earlier, Peter already had a simple meal whipped up, and both the werewolf and Malia were – and still are – wearing at least one article of clothing from his closet.  Stiles didn't begrudge them for that; the sewers stank, and they obviously needed a change of clothes.

But then, when they first settled down for the night, Stiles made room for Peter, made room for Malia, and that was that.  He _wanted_ them with him, within his line of sight, just to be sure that both were safe.

“...Huh,” He manages at last.  Peter doesn't roll his eyes this time.  In fact, he looks... nervous.  Apprehensive.  Like he’s waiting for Stiles’ verdict.

“Do you want to be, er, Pack, I guess?”  And wow, it abruptly occurs to him that Malia’s been saying that for months, and Stiles is an _idiot_ for not noticing.

Peter doesn't answer verbally, only watching Stiles instead with none of his usual sass and arrogance.  It makes him look almost painfully vulnerable, and _that_ makes Stiles want to reach out and- and-

He just does it, lets his instincts guide him, and when he runs light fingers along Peter’s neck before curling a hand around his nape in a gentle but firm grip, Peter slumps like his strings have been cut.

The werewolf makes a low noise at the back of his throat, something between a whine and a very long, very tired sigh, and then he’s tilting his head and baring his throat, and _oh_.

It’s like a puzzle piece clicking into place in Stiles’ mind, right alongside Malia’s and his own, and there’s a new thrum of energy there too, something binding and surprisingly strong.

Without a word, and biting back the million and one questions swirling around in his head, Stiles steers Peter down to lie flat on the bed, and he himself wriggles until he’s on his side again as well.

It’s warm, with a were’ behind and in front of him.  Malia squirms closer even in her sleep, moulding herself against his back and throwing an arm over him for good measure.

Peter on the other hand just crowds closer until his breath fans out over Stiles’ collarbone.  When Stiles makes to let go, the werewolf tenses up, so Stiles leaves his hand at Peter’s neck, thumb brushing soothingly at the skin under the werewolf's jawline, and he doesn't even twitch when the man proceeds to snake a possessive arm around his waist.

They're going to have to talk about this in the morning (later in the morning, or whenever they wake up).  But for now, Malia’s snoring softly in dreamland, and Peter’s eyes are lighter, warmer, in a way that Stiles has never seen before.  The werewolf is struggling to keep them open though, exhaustion clearly pulling at him, so Stiles slings an arm of his own over Peter as well and promptly shuts his eyes.

When he manages to peel open a drowsy eyelid several minutes later, Peter’s breathing has evened out, and he’s definitely out for the count.  His expression is positively serene like this, stress lines smoothed away.

Satisfied, Stiles closes his eyes again and follows his Pack into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently people like Alpha!Stiles, and since there aren’t a whole lot of them out there, and I love the idea of Alpha!Stiles myself, I’m gonna keep adding to this whenever I can. People have asked for reactions to Stiles/Malia/Peter!Pack, and those will now definitely be coming up in a chapter or two.
> 
> And all my headcanons have a Stiles who knows magic, but Spark!Stiles in this is partially inspired by **_[this](http://cocoslash.tumblr.com/post/109665194379/au-stiles-studies-magic)_**. Like seriously, I wish it was canon. It would've made the series a hell of a lot more interesting.

When Stiles wakes up the next morning, he’s never felt more content, and it takes a moment for him to puzzle out why. Or rather, it takes a moment to register the warm bodies on either side of him, limbs tangled with his own.

Malia is – normally – not a particularly deep sleeper. She’s dozed off at the loft before, but even a rustle of clothing from Liam or a yawn from Kira on their way out the door will wake her. The reaction’s probably something leftover from her time living as a coyote, when she needed to be alert for other predators at all times, whether that was an animal higher up on the food chain than her or a hunter.

But when she feels safe – and a part of Stiles will never stop marveling over the fact that Malia honestly feels one hundred percent safe in his presence – she can sleep like the dead, so it’s not all that surprising to find her snoozing soundly against his shoulder, hair strewn all over the pillow in a tangled mess that Stiles knows will frustrate her when she wakes, as it does every day.

On the other hand, Peter’s a bit of a shock. As far as Stiles can remember, Peter has never let down his guard around any of the members of the Beacon Hills Pack, ever. When he’s at the loft, he’s always watching everyone, sometimes tossing out sarcastic remarks, other times contributing what he knows, but not once has he ever taken so much as a catnap in their presence. Most of the time, even when it’s something as inconsequential as picking a place to sit during a pack meeting, Peter tends to choose the bottom steps of the staircase, a spot where Stiles knows gives the person sitting there a full view of the room, everyone in it, _and_ all the exits.

Right now however, the werewolf in question is as fast asleep as Malia is, arm still slung around Stiles’ waist, chest rising and falling with the leisure consistency of deep slumber, and face buried in Stiles’ neck as if even Peter’s subconscious is trying to burrow impossibly closer to-

...to his Alpha.

Well, fuck him sideways.

Stiles stares up at the ceiling for a long minute as the conversation from last night (early morning) rushes back to the forefront of his mind.

It’s not... a bad thing. Even before the whole Kate issue, Stiles was already considering pulling Peter into the little... well, Pack – now that he thinks about it – that he and Malia inadvertently made. Peter had no one, always floating at the fringes of Derek’s – and then Scott’s – Pack like an unwanted, resented intruder, but he seemed to hit it off fairly well with Malia from what Stiles has observed, both a little tentative – occasionally even wary – in their interactions, especially at the beginning, but overall _okay_ for two strangers who’ve turned out to be father and daughter in a plot twist fit for the motion pictures. Plus, even disregarding all that, Peter’s admittedly good company. He’s as snarky as Stiles is, with a mind that can keep up with Stiles’ leaps of logic, and a certain capability for steering Stiles back on track whenever he went off on a rambling tangent for too long in the middle of an important research session. Past murderous rampages and trust issues aside, bottom line – Stiles _likes_ Peter.

So he’s been meaning to start including the werewolf whenever he and Malia slipped away for outings of their own, maybe invite Peter along when they left town for camping trips where Malia could run wild for a few days, or extend the werewolf an invitation when they went out for a meal or a movie or shopping. The three of them aren’t so different after all – Malia’s still uncomfortable with spending large amounts of time with people that she’s had neither time nor desire to get to know better, and Stiles himself is more than a little fed up with the way Kira always keeps one eye on him and a hand on her katana when he’s around, and the way he feels either suffocated or sidelined or frequently irritated when he has to put up with Scott’s black-and-white policies or Derek’s you’re-just-a-human spiel or Liam’s... just _Liam_ , period. And Lydia hasn't been able to properly look him in the eye since the night Allison died.

These days, so long as Stiles shows up when Scott calls him to clean up his fuckups, nobody even thinks to ask where Stiles – and by extension, Malia – goes when he’s not around.

But not once has Stiles ever even _entertained_ the notion of becoming _Peter’s Alpha_. To be fair, he never realized he was Malia’s Alpha until Peter pointed it out to him, but seriously, what the fuck? Is the universe messing with him? Once upon a time, if Stiles said yes, Peter would've become _his_ Alpha. Now it’s the other way around, and the most astonishing thing about it isn’t the fact that Stiles can be both human _and_ Alpha; it’s the fact that Peter seems perfectly willing – even _eager_ – to submit to Stiles.

To be accepted as Pack.

Well okay, maybe it’s not _that_ astonishing after all. And Stiles, Stiles can be an unmitigated asshole to most, with little to no real sympathy for anyone he doesn’t care about on a personal level, but those he _does_ care about, those he acknowledges as family, as _Pack_ , they're the ones he’ll walk through hell and back for.

He’s proved that to Peter with Malia yesterday, perhaps even proved it to the man before – when Stiles killed for Scott and died for his father and stood in the line of fire time and time again for a pack that he’s never really called his own and only ever protected because its members were important to either Scott or Scott’s continued wellbeing.

So. Now what? Malia’s Pack, Peter’s Pack, and apparently, Stiles is their Alpha. That... changes some things, but not a whole lot when it comes down to it. Malia has already been up there along with the Sheriff and Scott on Stiles’ list of priorities for a while now, and Peter’s been gradually making his way up to join them, possibly since as far back as when the werewolf first came back to life, and Stiles found someone who not only tolerated him but seemed to enjoy his company to boot.

Stiles just... hasn't noticed. Peter has a knack for creeping up on you like that.

And now, when Stiles turns his focus inward, he can actually sense the bonds he has with both Malia and Peter, glowing strands of light that pulse steadily in his mind like the synchronized cadences of two hearts, one more developed and stable than the other but both already shining with an innate strength that leaves him feeling humbled and thrilled at the same time.

They make Stiles feel like he’s holding something infinitely precious in the palms of his hands, and despite the sheer novelty of this entire situation, he instinctively knows that he’ll never ever want to even risk endangering what he’s been freely given and trusted with, for fear of them shattering at his feet.

Pack bonds. Odd that he’s never felt one as powerfully as he now does with these two.

He can feel weaker, fainter bonds at the edges of his awareness, and it’s easy enough to identify one for his father, another for Scott, and even one each for Lydia and Derek, but they’re... distant compared to Malia’s and Peter’s, wisps of smoke to his two packmates’ bright, steel-forged threads.

It’s... sad, in a way. In many ways. But at the same time, he can’t exactly bring himself to regret what he has in their stead.

Deftly, Stiles pushes himself upright, shifting Malia’s head onto her pillow and extricating himself from Peter’s grasp before crawling out of bed. They still don’t wake, but then – he checks his phone – it’s barely nine in the morning, and yesterday was exhausting for everyone involved.

Even Kate. Lucky for her, she can catch up on sleep for the rest of eternity.

Stiles tames the thought. If people hear things like that, the things that pass through his head when he thinks about his enemies, they’d probably lock him up in the nuthouse again. Or at the very least, send him to a therapist.

He stretches languidly before glancing back. Malia’s shuffled closer to Peter but doesn't stir otherwise. Peter in contrast is frowning in his sleep now, a minute crease appearing at his brow.

After a hesitant moment of consideration, Stiles focuses on his pack bond with Peter and runs a mental hand over it, pushing reassurance and security down the connection.

And just like that, Peter settles, features smoothing out again.

Stiles rocks back on his heels with a sense of accomplishment. Awesome. He has no idea what he’s doing of course but he thinks he’s doing alright for a first time.

As quietly as he can, he stoops down to fish out the three info boards underneath his bed before slipping out of his room and leaving his two packmates to get their fill of sleep. It’s a Sunday, and there’s nothing important lined up in the near future, schoolwork or otherwise.

Twenty minutes later, after a trip to the bathroom and the mandatory wait time needed for the coffee to brew, Stiles has a mug of coffee in his hands and his information boards set up in the living room. His father’s been sleeping down at the station again so there’s no need to hide.

Not that there’s a need to hide either way. Stiles learned to conceal any truly important information from prying eyes months ago.

The boards in front of him are plastered with dates and notes on basic mythical lore that the average citizen would mistake for the framework of a school project, and the not so average citizen would take one look and sneer at how little Stiles knows about the supernatural world.

Stiles extends a finger, draws on his Spark, and traces the Japanese kanji for ‘key’ on the closest board. His magic flares. The layers of illusions thrown over the boards ripple like the ocean tide on a summer day, and then they part for him, sweeping aside to reveal the far more comprehensive information underneath.

Stiles does a fist pump, unable to help himself. He got something other than PTSD, an aversion to most touches, and a newfound hatred for the cold from the Nogitsune after all, and those fragments of memories from a thousand-year-old entity – coupled with Stiles’ own self-studies so far – have proven useful enough to almost make up for the Nogitsune violating his mind and using his body.

 _Almost_ being the keyword.

It’s exhilarating though – magic always is to him. It came so easily after he started believing that he _could_ , and now his Spark is a constant warm companion in his chest, always answering when he calls on it. Not even the Nogitsune could take that away from him; the only thing that’s changed after Stiles’ possession is that now he has an almost unnaturally potent affinity for illusory magic, and a never before seen fluency in multiple languages.

Hence, the kanji, and combined with Stiles’ magic, he’s almost certain that not even Kira’s mom would be able to shatter his illusions.

He returns his attention to the info boards. It is the faces of the Calaveras that stare back at him, all eight of their main elite hunters, and spread out across the boards around them is their family history, current whereabouts, hunting methods, and even personal details – everything Stiles has managed to compile since the second the name _Calavera_ became a threat in his ears.

Taking a sip of coffee, Stiles makes an upward cutting motion, and in the blink of an eye, laser-red lines spring into existence, darting in all directions to link hunters to hunters, and then hunters to various locations on the map, and then doubling back to link them to each of their biographies. It’s an exact replica of what’s already in Stiles’ mind, connecting dots with the precision of long nights and possibly unlawful investigation.

Stiles takes it all in pensively. Kate is gone, and the deadpool is over and done with so the bounty hunters should be dispersing as well, back to whatever holes they crawled out of, but the Calaveras...

They're not Gerard Argent levels of crazy, but they don’t see were’s as anything more than animals either, and the longer they linger in Beacon Hills, the more Stiles wants to get rid of them for good.

Not smart of course. Indiscriminate murder never is, but especially so when it’s the Calaveras in question. Four-fifths of the core group of Argents already met their end in this town, and Beacon Hills does not need a reputation for decimating old hunter families.

Stiles is hoping that they’ll just leave once Kate’s body – what’s left of it – is found, along with the Berserkers. But the last three Alphas that reigned in Beacon Hills (in _very_ rapid succession, may he add) have made such a mess of things – a mix of plain bad luck and either madness or sheer incompetency – that it’s unlikely. The Calaveras may decide to simply wipe out the pack in Beacon Hills – after all, a problem that hunters the world over would all like to see put down will no longer be a problem once they're a pile of bones six feet under – or they may stick around to ‘monitor’ them since Chris hasn't exactly been doing a bang-up job in their opinion, and that’s just- no.

Stiles has no desire to be put under surveillance twenty-four/seven, possibly not even allowed to leave this town ever again for the rest of his life.

So he needs a backup plan. Scott will undoubtedly try to play nice with them, talk and compromise and allow concession after concession, and in the end, all the power will end up in the Calaveras’ hands. Scott is many things but a cutthroat at the negotiating table who can smile one second and slip a knife – verbal or otherwise – between their opponent’s ribs the next, he’s most definitely not.

Stiles sighs. There _will_ probably have to be some sort of compromise though, if he doesn't want to resort to outright blackmail. That always tends to leave the other party resentful for some reason, and the last thing they all need is the Calaveras calling their friends and coming back for revenge or something equally troublesome.

He blinks out of his musings when something tugs at his attention, and it makes him turn in time to watch Peter – hair still mussed from sleep, and decked in a pair of Stiles’ sweats and a shirt – slink into view on silent feet.

For a moment, all they do is stare at each other. Peter’s face is set in carefully neutral lines, and he lurks just inside the doorway of the living room like he thinks he won’t be welcome any further in. He doesn't say a word but Stiles gets a vague sense of the werewolf’s nervous uncertainty through their pack bond anyway, and rather suddenly, he’s assailed with an almost overwhelming urge to spike Derek’s water supply with wolfsbane at the very next opportunity.

He pushes the impulse aside. That’s not what’s important right now.

Instead, he smiles and raises his mug in greeting. “Morning, Peter. Do you want some tea? I can put the kettle on again.”

He pads forward, swiftly erasing the distance between them, and he doesn't let even a hint of the quiver of trepidation in his gut show as he reaches out with his free hand, sliding it over the werewolf’s shoulder before resting it against one shoulder blade. A gentle push draws his new packmate in until Stiles can run his nose along the arch of Peter’s neck, dragging his scent over the werewolf’s skin so that it’ll linger even if humans can’t smell it.

Claiming him.

Stiles has always been possessive of what he calls his.

Peter shudders against him, a tremble that wracks his entire body, and then a strangled noise erupts from his throat before he tilts his head to give Stiles more room. And as if he’s been given permission to do as he pleases, the werewolf tucks his nose just under the curve of Stiles’ jaw, thoroughly scenting him in return like he’s making up for lost time.

By the time Stiles finally pulls back, the tension’s drained out of Peter, and the werewolf’s mouth is tipped up in a rare half-smile that holds none of his usual passive-aggressive condescension. His eyes are very blue, and they regard Stiles with a hope so cautious that it makes his throat tighten.

He makes a promise to himself then and there; that look in Peter’s eyes right now – he is never going to betray it.

Stepping back, Stiles can’t resist rubbing at the spot where Peter’s stubble scraped against his cheek, and the werewolf’s smile widens into a familiar smirk, giving him the appearance of an immensely satisfied cat.

Stiles rolls his eyes even as he steps around the man. “Make yourself at home, creeperwolf; I’ll get you some tea.”

When he returns ten minutes later, Peter is – unsurprisingly – standing in front of Stiles’ info boards.

“Ceylon,” Stiles says, passing the steaming cup over to the werewolf.

“Thank you,” Peter replies easily, fingers brushing against Stiles’ in the exchange before both their attentions go back to the Calaveras.

Or Peter’s does. Stiles is more interested in watching Peter examine the boards.

“Impressive,” The werewolf eventually remarks, avidly reading Araya Calavera’s list of successful ‘hunts’. “You don’t do things by halves, Stiles.”

Stiles snorts, leaning his weight against the back of a nearby armchair. “I learned my lesson with the Argents. I didn't know a thing about them and it-”

He cuts himself off. Even just thinking about Gerard whaling on him makes him want to kill something. He loathes even the _thought_ of being as helpless as he was back then. If he knew to delve into Gerard’s past at the time, if he was smart enough to scrounge up something that would ruin that old bastard, he could've blackmailed the shit out of Gerard and gotten himself _and_ Boyd and Erica out of there, but-

“You told Kate that Gerard tortured you,” Peter interrupts, and Stiles blinks back into the present, glancing to the side at the werewolf.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms curtly, gulping down a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. “Gerard’s hunters got the drop on me. I was supposed to be a message from him to Scott.”

“Scott didn't receive it, I assume,” Peter’s lip curls. “Since he still agreed to work with Gerard up to a point.”

Stiles shrugs, gaze fixed steadfastly on the information boards. “Scott didn't notice.”

He downs the rest of his coffee before pushing off the armchair and approaching the photograph of Severo Calavera. He snags the line connecting Severo to Andres – one of the former’s sons – with his fingertips and floods it blue instead. Easier to pick out that way.

“Meaning?” Peter prompts, and Stiles is so damn grateful that the man doesn't make a huge deal out of something long past. The werewolf stands close enough that their shoulders brush though, and that in itself means more to Stiles than any words.

“Dead,” Stiles clarifies. “The dude went after a pack in Texas about nine months ago, broke the Code when he went after a couple of kids in the pack and managed to poison a little girl with a wolfsbane bullet, but the girl wasn't even a werewolf, her _twin_ was, and none of them had actually done anything wrong. They were part of the Garcia Pack, and their Alpha – their _mom_ – tore Andres to pieces for it.”

Peter’s eyes go momentarily icy. “Justice is served,” He mutters darkly, and Stiles doesn't bother curbing a hum of agreement.

“How do you know the Garcia Pack?” Peter enquires after a moment of contemplation.

Stiles runs a distracted hand through his hair before turning to face Peter’s curious gaze. “When the Calaveras first came to Beacon Hills, I needed to know what they were capable of, so I did a little digging. They operate out of Mexico so it stood to reason that werewolf packs in or near that country would've had the most dealings with them. And... I’ve actually been trying to get in touch with other packs for a while now. I figured even just a few allies wouldn't hurt, right? Especially if those allies came from more experienced and well-established packs. But it was a bit difficult at first because I didn't really have anything to offer them in exchange for keeping me updated about anything causing waves in the supernatural world or promising assistance when one of us needed it...”

He trails off for a moment, thinking back to how frustrating it was when – after tracking down yet another werewolf pack, which was hard enough what with how sensibly secretive they all were – all he got for his efforts was a negative response, sometimes politely phrased, other times a derisive flat-out what-are-you-on _no_.

“And after what happened with the Hales,” Stiles continues with a grimace. “Nobody wanted to touch Beacon Hills with a ten-foot pole in case it drew the Argents’ attention to them next. And as if all of that wasn't bad enough, I...” He scowls, tapping a fingernail against his empty mug. “I never brought this stuff up with Derek when he was Alpha. I mean I didn't actually get around to thinking about pack alliances until Deucalion showed up, and then I didn't have any time to sit down and figure out how to go about creating them until after that crisis was over, and by then, Scott was Alpha. And I did bring it up with him but... he wasn't really interested in branching out and potentially inviting more trouble. He’s... Scott’s never actually embraced the supernatural, if you know what I mean.”

Peter nods, looking utterly disdainful. Peter would know. The werewolf notices everything, and Scott has never actually made his discomfort with his wolf side a secret, especially at the beginning.

“So I didn't really have a leg to stand on,” Stiles sighs. “Scott didn’t say _no_ exactly, but he didn't really... _care_ either. Pack politics bore him to no end; trust me, I tried explaining it to him once, and we got exactly nowhere. Besides,” His gaze slides over to the window. It’s a good day today, sunny despite the layer of frost on the ground. “If I'm being honest, Scott’s never been my Alpha. I've never followed him a day in my life; if anything, it was always the other way around. So. I had no stable pack to offer, I was associated with Beacon Hills, _and_ I wasn't representing any Alpha.”

He turns back to Peter, and when he speaks, his words are laced with an underscore of ferocity. “But I’ve been protecting Scott since kindergarten when Jackson stole his inhaler for the first time, and if he wasn't going to protect himself, then I’ll damn well do it for him like I always have.”

He pauses again and cocks his head. Peter looks the perfect rapt audience. It’s actually kind of flattering.

“The Garcia Pack was a fortunate coincidence,” Stiles goes on. “I managed to track down a number that would reach them, and when I called to make my sales pitch for the umpteenth time, well,” He nods at the photo of Andres Calavera. “It was right after they had dealt with Andres.”

Peter’s expression sharpens to a thoughtful one, and Stiles knows that he’s already starting to put the pieces together.

“Andres shot one of the Alpha’s daughters, Adelaide, but he didn't manage to kill her right off. Problem was, the wolfsbane in the bullet was a variation that affected humans just as badly, and the Garcia Pack didn't know how to treat it. As you can guess, they weren’t really in the mood to deal with some teenage stranger on the phone looking to make alliances for a fledgling pack, but they were also pretty desperate by that point, which was probably the only reason they didn't hang up on me when I asked them what I could offer in exchange for even just a phone call or two if something big ever came up in the rumour grapevine. In the end, Eleanor, the Alpha, told me that if I could produce a cure for her daughter, then she’d get me in touch with a few of her contacts at the very least.

“I don’t think she ever even hoped I would be able to do anything,” Stiles admits with a wry smile. “But, you see, I’ve been researching the supernatural and magic and anything and everything in-between since the night you Bit Scott and werewolves became a thing. One of those things was wolfsbane. Any strain, any hybrid, I was _there_. Plus, I'm a Spark; so long as I can identify the type of wolfsbane, I don’t need the counter, I just need my magic, so I agreed.

“You remember last spring break when I left Beacon Hills for a week and a half? I told my dad I wanted to get out of town for a bit of a vacation, go to Sacramento or something, but I actually headed down to Texas instead.”

“The Alpha just gave you the location of her pack though?” Peter interjects, levelling a searching look on Stiles. “Most wouldn't hand out such important information to outsiders just like that, no matter the reason, and the Garcia Pack is as old as the Hales for a reason.”

Stiles quirks another smile. Of course Peter would catch that. “You're right; I made a deal with her – she’d give me the location of her pack, let me onto her territory and into her home and everything, and she’d let me treat her daughter, but... if I failed – either because I did something wrong or I just couldn't save her – then the price would be my life.”

Peter goes stone still. He looks at Stiles like he almost can’t believe what he’s seeing. Stiles just grins. “I’ll say it right now – I was freaking terrified. They wouldn't even tell me what condition Addy was in over the phone so I literally had no clue what I was walking into aside from a human kid dying from a rare type of wolfsbane. But it was the first damn breakthrough I’d had ever since I started tracking down other packs, and I wasn't about to give that up, so I agreed to the deal.”

He spreads his arms a little. “As you can see, I made it out alive. It took me five days to work out what was wrong and to flush out the wolfsbane in her bloodstream with my magic, and when I first got there, I lost count of how many times I was threatened with an agonizing death should I fail, but, I did it. It took me two days of sleep to recover enough energy to even walk afterwards, but _I fucking did it_.”

He grins then, wide and broad, and – even after all this time – so damn proud of himself because it was his first personal achievement, something only he had been able to do, and _he had done it_. And the looks of gratitude and respect from every member of the Garcia Pack when he woke up – like they saw him and thought him _capable_ – was icing on the cake.

He laughs a bit, smiling in recollection. “Eleanor invited me to stay with them for a few more days, and we had this huge meal the evening I woke up, and they _said_ they always ate that much, but I think it was also partly because they knew I was starving from magical exhaustion so they cooked extra. Addy was awake by then too, and she was still weak, but she could hobble short distances, and she wouldn't stop following me around.”

Stiles is fond of that girl. Her twin, Genevieve, too, but Addy in particular.

“It was sorta neat to see such a huge pack interact,” Stiles recalls. “And they were all family too – aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings. And they... gelled, you know? Or meshed, or whatever. They got along in a way the Beacon Hills Pack never has, like, they went for runs in the forest around their pack house, and they played with each other, tag and stuff, and they didn't leave their human members behind either if they wanted to go too. The older were’s would carry the younger human kids on their backs, and they were gentle with them, you know, but they _included_ them, and they’d all just... they were a real _pack_ , and that was- that was really cool to see.”

“...We were like that,” Peter abruptly divulges, and Stiles blinks at him questioningly. There’s something wistful in the tilt of his mouth even as his gaze remains intent on Stiles’ face.

“The Hale Pack,” Peter clarifies. “We were like that too, once, before the fire.”

Stiles considers this for a second before nodding. “Well yeah, that makes sense. Old family pack and all.”

Peter hums noncommittally, sipping absently at his tea. “What about those contacts?”

“Ah,” Stiles smirks, and it sparks a similar expression on Peter’s face. “Eleanor didn't just give me a few of her contacts’ names; she put me in touch with all of them, which pretty much gave me access to packs and even druids and witches all over America because I had the Garcia Pack vouching for me. And Eleanor agreed to an alliance too. Basically, if I ever needed help, she’d send it. And in exchange, if she needed a Spark to give her pack a hand, I’d be there for them in return.”

He frowns before tacking on more somberly, “ _Only_ me though. The alliance is only with me. If, say, Scott asked for her help, she won’t give it.”

Something spiteful runs along their pack bond at that moment. A vindictive sort of approval that doesn't really surprise Stiles. He can’t really expect the werewolf to concern himself over whether or not Scott has managed to form alliances of his own.

“Have they been useful?” Peter glances back at the boards now, eyes lingering on the six other Calaveras that make up the core group in that hunting family.

Stiles nods anyway. “It’s why we’ve only had to deal with Araya and Severo. Eleanor called a few months back and told me that something had the Calaveras up in arms, and that there were whispers of visiting Beacon Hills in their schedule. She told me she’d stir up a bit of trouble a few states over, enough for Araya to send some of her family members there to investigate so that we wouldn't have to deal with all of them.”

He stops to gauge Peter’s reaction. “So then? What do you think of it all? I did pretty good for my first alliance, right?”

Peter stares at him. And then he chuckles.

Stiles blinks, taken aback, and then he draws himself up rather indignantly. “What’s so funny?”

Peter smiles at him from behind his teacup. He doesn't say anything, but all of a sudden, their pack bond lights up, and a wave of pride and approval and even admiration tumbles down the length of it, followed by no small amount of- _arousal_.

Stiles flushes red. It’s a good thing he’s already finished his coffee or he’d be choking on it.

“‘Pretty good’?” Peter repeats with incredulous amusement. “Stiles, if you were any better, you’d have the world at your feet right about now. That stubbornness of yours, coupled with the rest of you – you wouldn't stop until you got what you wanted. It could be a future goal even. Do you have aspirations towards world domination by any chance?”

Stiles snorts with laughter, and the atmosphere goes lax once more. “Unfortunately no. Too much paperwork.”

Peter makes a moue of disappointment but there’s a teasing light in his eyes, and the moment of silence they share next is a comfortable one.

A sound from the direction of the stairs interrupts the hush, and they both glance over at the doorway as Malia appears, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She’s still in one of Stiles’ too large shirt, and her hair is adorably tousled.

“Wha’z goin’ on?” She slurs out, wandering in and sparing a moment to lean into her father when she passes him before continuing on to slump against Stiles. “Are we havin’ a pack meeting? How could you have a pack meeting without me?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and nudges her into the armchair. “We’re not having a pack meeting. I was just telling Peter the Garcia Pack story.”

Malia cards fingers through her hair, wincing when they catch on several knots. “Garci- oh that one.” Looking more alert, she grins over at her dad. “Stiles is awesome, isn’t he? And now he’s our Alpha!”

Stiles instantly reddens again, and everything gets a whole lot more serious in the span of a heartbeat. “Malia-”

“What? We are, right?” Malia looks between them, blue eyes gleaming. “I can feel our pack bonds. And come on, Stiles, I know you can be slow on the uptake sometimes-”

“Hey!”

“-but you've been my Alpha for months, and we’ve been talking about bringing Peter in for almost as long, and now it’s finally happened.”

A long silence ensues. Stiles chews on his bottom lip. Yeah, he’s already more or less accepted it but hearing it out loud just feels... _more_ , and-

He glances at Peter. “...You know I don’t really know what I’m doing, right?” He asks quietly even as he straightens and squares his shoulders. “I mean, until last night, I didn’t even know humans could be Alphas. I just...”

He takes a deep breath. He looks at Malia, and the amount of faith he finds there almost scares him. And then he meets Peter’s endless blue eyes, and he remembers the hope there, and the desire for Pack.

Stiles exhales, and something in him settles.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” He repeats, but his gaze is steady and unashamed, and his next words roll off his tongue with an honest resolve that’s almost frightening in its intensity. “But Malia’s right – you’re Pack now. _We’re_ Pack now. And that means you’re both mine. That means I will protect you, and I will never betray you. I will kill for you and die for you, and if anybody manages to hurt you, I’ll fuck them up so bad they’ll regret it all the way into the afterlife and beyond. That much, I promise you.”

Peter’s eyes _burn_ , and his expression is raw. When he releases a pent-up breath, the sound shakes past his lips with something a lot like relief. The werewolf sets down his tea, and then he walks forward until he’s standing only half a foot away from Stiles.

In an echo of last night’s brief exchange, Peter averts his gaze and deliberately bares his throat, and when Stiles curls a hand around the back of his neck once more, the werewolf’s eyes flutter shut for several seconds even as he lets Stiles guide him close.

It’s pure instinct for Stiles to slot his teeth against the muscle of Peter’s neck, a light but intentional press against tanned skin for several lengthy seconds.

Stiles withdraws but he doesn't let go. Peter’s eyes open, and they meet his with a look that Stiles has never seen before and can’t quite name.

“I promise the same,” Peter tells him, and it sounds strangely formal for a mere four words. His voice dips to a low murmur in Stiles’ ears. “ _Alpha_.”

Triumph and satisfaction blends together in his chest, and the pack bond between them blazes like a bonfire, brighter and brighter until Stiles feels almost drunk with the buzz of it.

He lets go of Peter with a gasp, thankful when the bond begins retreating to something less intense. He feels Peter guide him into a chair, and even then, it takes a moment for Stiles to gather his bearings.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles blurts out, staring dazedly at Peter. “Is that what happens with all Alphas?”

“Certainly not,” Peter refutes, and somehow, he has a glass of water in hand, which he passes to Stiles. Stiles takes a giant gulp of it. “I wasn't sure what _would_ happen but... well, you're no regular Alpha.”

“I’m human,” Stiles nods, taking another sip.

“Yes,” Peter smiles, and it’s as genuine as it is pleased. “But you’re also a Spark. Naturally, officially acknowledged pack bonds with you would be a little different.”

Stiles just focuses on breathing for a while. And then his focus turns inward, and he’s surprised to find the bond he and Peter shares is now as firmly established as the one he has with Malia. It still gives the impression of being... newer compared to his pack bond with Malia, but it’s now grounded in a way it wasn't earlier this morning.

“Oh,” He says faintly. He looks around for Malia, realizing that he lost track of her. She’s on his right, semi-hovering at his elbow, brow knitted with concern. Stiles smiles as reassuringly as possible. “I’m fine, Malia. It was just a bit overwhelming for a few seconds. ...Do I have to do whatever I did with Peter with you too?”

“I don’t think so,” Peter answers again as Malia huffs and hops up onto the arm of the chair Stiles is sitting in. “You and Malia have been spending enough time together to cement your bond already. It was more gradual, and in a way, killing Kate yesterday brought it out of dormancy, fully formed. You and I on the other hand...”

“Peter was still pack adjacent before Kate,” Malia pipes up, head canting as she works out pack dynamics like she’s calculating advanced algebra. Neither subject is something she grew up with. “So I guess what you did earlier stabilized the pack bond that was already... _almost_ there.”

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, the only thing I actually care about at the moment is that both of you are now officially, formally, whatever-you-wanna-call-it-ly, recognized in the eyes of God and were’s alike, _my Pack_ , yes?”

Malia nods earnestly. Peter inclines his head, happiness less outwardly obvious than his daughter’s but still vividly detectable to Stiles all the same.

“Good,” Stiles nods briskly before slugging down the rest of his water. “Then that’s all that matters, and we’re going to drop the subject before I get a headache. If I have questions, I’ll ask later.”

“Great!” Malia perks up. “So now we should celebrate!”

Peter looks mildly amused as he regards his daughter. Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How? Lunch?”

“Well, lunch,” Malia nods agreeably. “I’m hungry. But... we should show Peter our den first!”

Stiles blinks. Peter glances at him. “Den?”

Stiles quirks a smile. “Technically, it’s Malia’s apartment, but I spend a lot of time over there, and there’s room enough for all of us to live there if we want.”

“Stiles picked it out and paid for it in the first place so it’s really both of ours, but it can be yours too from now on,” Malia reveals enthusiastically. “And Stiles took me to IKEA to shop for all the furniture, and he helped me pick out all my clothes too. You can see when you come over! We can go right now, right Stiles?”

Stiles nods, though out of his peripheral vision, he can see a mix of bemusement and dawning realization clash on Peter’s face. “Sure, why not? I’ve had enough of staring at Calaveras anyway. I’ll clean my stuff up while you get ready. And don’t forget pants this time.”

“I _won’t_ ,” Malia sticks her tongue out, and they’re all very aware that the werecoyote is wearing nothing but underwear under Stiles’ shirt. Stiles has long since been desensitized to it, and Malia’s never been all that concerned about nudity. Now she just slides fluidly back to her feet before heading for the door. “You’ll like the apartment, Peter! Stiles spent an entire week at IKEA with me, and he let me choose whatever I wanted, and he said I had your taste in aesthetics apparently.”

She breezes out of the room with a bounce in her step, and it makes Stiles smile after her, affection welling up inside him. He doesn't know why but there’s something about Malia that hits every protective instinct he has, and it’s been like that since Eichen House.

“Stiles,” Peter says.

Stiles glances knowingly up at the werewolf. “You forgot she spent eight years as a coyote, didn’t you?”

Peter’s jaw clenches. “You paid for her apartment? And her furniture? And her clothes? Schoolbooks? _Fake identification papers?_ ”

“Coyotes don’t tend to need money,” Stiles informs him sardonically. “Or any of that other stuff.”

A flash of fangs. “I thought Derek was paying for her living expenses.”

Stiles shrugs. “He probably would've if he’d remembered, but Malia doesn't really know him so she didn't want to ask him for money, and Derek never offered.”

Peter looks deadly calm but their pack bond is pulsing with fury. And not all of it is directed at Derek either. “How have you been...?”

“I do favours for my contacts and the handful of packs I’ve made alliances with,” Stiles discloses straightforwardly. “Potions that need a magical kick, liquidized wolfsbane cures that’s more potent with a Spark’s touch – that sort of thing. And in return, they give me money. You’d be surprised how much I make. Plus,” He smirks. “I’m excellent at card games, and I have a fake ID to get me into poker dens downtown. So, Malia and I – we get by.”

Peter looks away for a moment before turning back. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Peter-”

“She’s _my_ daughter,” He insists, and for a moment, there’s something horribly hollow in his voice. “I should've considered-”

“And she’s my packmate,” Stiles counters pointedly. “And so are you. You can pitch in from now on; it _would_ help because finals are coming up in a few months, and I won’t have as much time to work.”

Peter still looks reluctant, but he nods, and when Stiles shifts over, the werewolf sighs and squeezes into the space, slipping an arm around Stiles’ waist in the process. Stiles rests his hand against Peter’s back, and he can feel the werewolf’s naturally heightened temperature seeping through the shirt.

“Malia’s _really_ smart, you know,” Stiles tells him after a minute of peaceful silence. “She’s literally missed eight years’ worth of school, and she’s _still_ scraping by. Her marks are bad if you compare them to her classmates’, and she’s failed tests and even essays several times already, but she’s missed _eight years_ , Peter, and she spent those eight years as an _animal_ , and she’s _still_ hanging in there with her age group in high school. She just got a B+ the other week on a Biology test.”

“I saw,” Peter nods. “She showed me. She was very proud.” He pauses. “I was... proud of her too.”

Stiles smiles. “You should be; she’s amazing.”

He can feel Peter’s eyes on him, and he raises his own enquiringly.

“Thank you for helping her,” The werewolf tells him with startling sincerity. “I didn’t... It didn’t really occur to me that she would have a handicap like that. I guess it’s because she can talk fine, and I forget that...”

Peter trails off with another sigh, and it reminds Stiles that Peter is actually new to this whole father gig.

“She forgot some words at the beginning,” Stiles concedes. “But that was the first thing I figured we should work on, so before I hacked the school database and had her ‘transferred’ into BHHS, we just spent a couple days talking about every subject we could think of, or we’d play word games – like, I’d say ‘envious’, and she’d give me a synonym, so like, ‘jealous’, and so on and so forth, and I think that helped a lot. English is her best subject at school, you know.”

Stiles peers over at the werewolf. “So she’s doing okay, all things considered, and now we have you too, so we’ll all be like, triply okay. I’d never leave Malia to flounder on her own. I’d, uh-” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I won’t leave you either since we’re Pack now- whoa!”

Stiles is abruptly pulled into Peter’s side, and the arm at his waist is almost painfully tight.

They don’t talk again until they hear Malia coming back down the stairs. They don’t even move. Stiles stays patiently, uncharacteristically still while Peter curls around him and just breathes him in like Stiles is the only thing keeping him sane.

Although, after a morning like today’s, perhaps – in a way – he is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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